Pilgrimage
by EasternViolet
Summary: What happens when an elf of little faith takes a pilgrimage?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **

_**A while back, I treated my 100th reviewer (Andraste's Key)**__** the chance to direct a one-shot. Agent 94 was the timely reviewer, and requested an Alim Surana tale, taking a pilgrimage to see the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Sounded delish! Thanks so much to DoorbellSpider and Kira Tamarion for your beta wonder. Thanks so much! This little story decided to grow legs and run away on me. This is a three-part tale. Thanks for reading!**_

"Commander Hess?" The messenger stood timidly in the doorway. As I return my quill to the well, I realize the sun has set and I have been reading in the dark.

"I am he, enter." My mother named me Alim Surana, but no shemlen or Elvhen has ever called me that. That name is lost to me. I am Jashen Hess. Perhaps you might have heard of me? The Queen honours me as the Hero of Ferelden, the Grey Wardens salute me as Commander and the Chantry refers to me as a_ Consular Mage_. I suppose Chantry needed to come up with a title to refer to a mage living outside the confines of the tower. I am the thorn in their side; the crack in their glass… they don't quite know what to do with me. Despite their malcontent and inability to easily categorize me, I am Jashen Hess all the same.

The _shem_ at my door seems surprised by my answer and holds out the letter for me. I set it atop of a pile of ratty papers, nod and return to the accounting ledger, but not before noticing his eyes narrow. The look of doubt that I am Commander of the Grey no longer offends me. Sometimes I awake and feel the same thing, wondering what strange twists of fate brought me to the Administrative Offices at Vigil's Keep. Sometimes I still curse Duncan for conscripting me. Once I thought there was forgiveness in my heart, as being a Warden eventually led to me to Leliana. But now that she is gone, my bitterness has returned, like the cold draughts that eddies between the mortar and stiffens my joints.

"Is there anything else?" I ask pointedly, as I straighten in my chair and glare back from the shadows. _Who is this half-wit?_ I wonder. Surely all of Ferelden is talking about the oddity that is the Commander. Perhaps they need to see me to believe.

"No Commander, my apologies." He bows and ducks back into the hallway.

I stare at the blackened wick, inhale and blow quickly. The candle sparks to life, grows tall and then wavers in the draughty room. My eye catches the seal on the delivered message. It is late and I fully intend on returning at first light to complete the tedium of paperwork that I have been reduced to attending. Ever since Mistress Woosley had returned to Weisshaupt, the Arling's accounting had suddenly landed in my lap, to which I will consistently respond with, "I'd rather go face-to-face with a snarling hurlock." Secretly, I do not mind. It is one of the few tasks that allow me time alone without those at the Keep poking in their noses and asking if everything is all right.

The sealing wax could easily be confused for a pool of blood in the candlelight and I am not sure if that is more of a reflection of my ire towards my current task or a portent regarding the letter's contents. With a quick slash of the letter opener, I decide to sate my curiosity, despite my weariness.

_17 Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon_

_Warden-Commander Hess,_

_It is with great honour that I cordially request your presence to partake in the first sanctioned pilgrimage to the Urn of Sacred Ashes at the (soon to be dedicated) Temple of Andraste, near Haven. Your role in finding the remains Our Holy Prophetess, has been duly recorded in the annals of Chantry history and this most holy of occasions would be remiss without your presence. Please join me on the last day of Haring for the official rededication of the temple. The Grand Cleric wishes to formally acknowledge your good works and has asked me to extend this invitation on her behalf. I am sure the many pilgrims would take great pleasure in making their first of many journeys with the Hero of Ferelden. _

_If your duties permit such a journey, please stop in Denerim so we may travel together. _

_Yours in the Maker's name_

_Brother Genitivi_

In response, I hold the corner of the letter over the flame. The Holy Prophetess, The Maker and the bloody Chantry—I cannot name three other things that elicit equal annoyance and vexation. Not only had the Chantry sought to convert every elven youngling in the alienage to their foolish tales of a single omnipotent being but they also weave this tale that magic is a result of sin. And of course, it goes without saying that this is the institution responsible for annexing every mage in Thedas and imprisoning us "for our own good." I crumple the letter into a tight ball and toss it at the door.

"The Arlings' finances are that bad are they?"

Sigrun appears where the messenger had stood, with crossed arms and an impish smirk. She picks up the paper and approaches, tossing it playfully in the air. Dramatically, she demonstrates the nimbleness of her roguish fingers and allows the paper ball to land on the top of her fist and then with the speed of a striking snake, catches it again. Not breaking her stride, she smoothed it flat and starts to read. For a moment I am offended at her lack of propriety and respect for privacy, but remind myself that the message was destined for the hearth.

"Seems like the Warden-Commander's a very popular chap! Lookie here… guest of honour and everything."

I stand at the window and watch the lantern-lights flicker throughout Vigil's Keep. "It's nothing but kindling for my fire in the morning."

"Oh come, Commander. You fail to see the opportunity in this." Her puckish expression breaks through the severity of the shadowy tattoos that line her weathered skin.

"Don't you have some Deep Roads to explore?" I grumble.

She sits at my desk and crosses her feet on top, leaving smudges of mud on my sums.

"If I had the chance to have the Shaper say nice things about me in front of every sodding noble in the Diamond Quarter… I'd jump at the chance. Rub all their stubby noses in it even!"

"That isn't the point, Sigrun."

"Of course it isn't the point, Jashen… but come on… you could set fire to the Grand Cleric's hair… or make it rain and turn the ashes into the Urn of Sacred Mud… Think of the mayhem you could cause! Oh please, let me come with you. This is something that I don't want to miss!" She wove her fingers together in a sign of mock-pleading.

If my mood was not so foul, I might have cracked a grin; it was not often that Sigrun begged for anything. I will have to remind her of that when I need to gain an advantage over her. For the moment, I allow myself to wallow in my bitterness. It is something that I have become relatively adept at. It is not Arling's accounting that requires my attention. Dealing with numbers is ultimately easier than dealing with the rest of the world. Numbers don't deceive.

I rub my forehead, as if trying to placate a headache I have not yet developed. "The last thing I want to do is listen to the Grand Cleric put on airs and recite some prepared speech about how an Elven Circle Mage completed a quest the Chantry was unable to complete…" I am so repulsed by the idea that a shiver trickles down my spine.

Sigrun bit her lip and raised an eyebrow. "Obviously you have been sitting up here in the dark with your abacus for too long. You're not considering the entire picture."

Before I can check my reaction, my brow arches and signals that I'm interested in the answer. Up until that moment, I was quite convinced that nothing of interest could be construed from the invitation.

Sigrun blows on her fingernails, still black with filth, and then rubs them on the collar of her tunic, as if to polish them. "I do recall that you found the Urn with a certain somebody."

I grunt, knowing where the conversation is leading. "Sten was there… "

"…and…"

"Juzo." I know I am being difficult, but the temptation to get a rise from Sigrun is too great.

"Your sodding hound? You name your hound before the love of your life?"

It has suddenly become much too personal and I resent the amount of gossip that circulates amongst the Wardens. What happened between Leliana and myself was so sacred that to have anyone speak of us was blasphemy. I think for a moment longer—realizing that Oghren must have started the rumours—and cringe at the thought of the crass detail he must have proffered.

Sigrun sighs audibly, expressing an exaggerated frustration. "Must I spell this out for you?" She flicks the beads on the abacus forcefully. "From what I've heard, finding the Urn was a very big deal to her. And now that she has run off to Ancestors knows where… don't you suppose she'll…"

I place a hand on her shoulder. "Don't you suppose she would have sent word about such a journey already?" My tone wavers as reality sinks in.

She turns to look at me, her eyes now wide and earnest. "Well, you will never know unless you try."

..:=+*+=:..

_The Ruined Temple, 18 Months Prior…_

I run my fingers through her hair, entranced at the sensation of each silken strand of fiery auburn slipping past my knuckles and then falling back into place. Her skin is equally soft and we are wrapped in nothing more than a bear pelt, feigning sleep in the temple ruins. My finger traces down her arm, hesitates, and then continues over the contour of her full hips. She must be asleep, or enjoying the sensation, as she remains still. I brush my hand over her belly and pull her toward me, settling her against my growing need. As I gently coax her awake, my hand drifts upward, ghosting softly beneath her breast. Brushing my palm against her nipple, I gently squeeze, feel it harden and perk and then resume my exploration further south. Before my fingers arrive at their intended destination, she squirms away, twists and is then face to face with me, her sweet breath on my lips and her arms entwine around my neck. She kisses me softly, sucking gently on my lip before pulling away. It is not enough for me. I want to devour her, consume her and return to her mouth with fervency, darting my tongue, twining with hers, losing myself momentarily in our connection. She separates from me with a lazy grin.

"Shhhh… I do not want to wake him."

I look over her shoulder and playfully quirk an eyebrow. "I'm sure Juzo won't tell anyone."

She pulls further back from me, but her hands trace down my chest. She makes her way to my navel, and I reposition myself to coax her downward. I am unsure if she is just teasing or if she truly is wary of bothering Sten. Surely, he has heard us before.

Her hands glide against my jaw. I want to growl in frustration but smile instead, taking her fingers and kissing the tips, tracing them over my lips.

"Silly," she says.

Her eyes are deep pools, earnest and sweet. She bites her bottom lip. "Do you think we will find it?"

I allow my hand to rest on the small of her back, hoping to distract her from the business of work and wondering how she rationalizes our discussion as having no impact upon our sleeping companion. With Juzo at the door, there is no need to schedule night watch—even Sten trusts my mabari's keen senses. I pull myself a little closer, to remind her of what I had started.

"Brother Genitivi seems certain," I sigh. "Why is it so important that you find this? Is your faith not enough?" The opportunity presents itself and finally, my fingers find the moist eagerness of her entrance. Her mouth opens slightly and she lets out a soft sigh as she allows my finger to slip inside. She closes her eyes and smiles. My activities, paired with the conversation at hand, are more than a little amusing. Despite my gentle strokes and her undulating response, she still seems quite determined to talk, so I decide there is no point in hurrying. Beneath my carnal veneer, I truly want to hear what she has to say. I am well-rested and there are still hours before dawn. Words will eventually fade, while our need will remain.

"I don't need to find it to prove anything. I need to do this for _her_." For a moment, I think she is talking about Isolde, until she notices my perplexed expression. "For Andraste. When the Maker heard her song, she was invited to his side, but instead, selflessly asks our Maker to forgive humanity and help us during our darkest hour. For that one gracious act she was burned alive and her followers risked their lives to retrieve her remains. … and now the opportunity has presented itself… that I can do something for her."

I realize my hands are wandering again—I cannot resist her heat, her inviting softness. She is not done, however, and I focus harder on the sweetness of her voice. Andraste must have had a voice like hers. I now understand why the Maker extended his welcome to such beauty. Of course, this is just wild speculation brought on by the fierceness of my simmering need. There is no such thing as a Maker and Andraste was at the very least, a Ferelden folk hero.

"And what if we turn up a dead end?" I ask, brushing my lips just under her chin.

"Then I can say I tried. What about you? To what ends would you go for Elgar'nan and Mythal?"

Her question is halting and I roll onto my back, weaving my fingers together on top of my chest and stare at the ceiling. With the grace of a skilled assassin, I usually evade discussions involving my beliefs. She is always quite determined to drag them from me. In her arms, my resistance wanes.

"It is quite complicated for me. I have no faith, Leliana. I was orphaned as a baby in Denerim. Sister Nelda found me and raised me in the alienage. Of course she taught me about the Maker and Andraste. No matter how good her intentions, she wanted me to forget my Dalish roots. She even took away my given name."

"Jashen is not your birth name?"

Leliana is still on her side, propping her head up with her hand, her copper hair all mussed and adorable. The urge to reach out and caress her milky skin is overwhelming, so I focus on the cobwebs above me.

"My mother named me Alim. My father was a Surana. I know very little of them. Both had been raised in the Denerim Alienage and it was my understanding that all they had was each other and both died of the black flu shortly after I was born. Sister Nelda cared for me as soon as my mother was unable and when she passed, took me to the orphanage. After that, she was the only family I had. For whatever reason, she must have developed an attachment to me. Some days I cursed her for erasing my elven name but on others, I think it was the only way she could try and give me a different future. "

"She was a Sister of Charity, was she not?"

I nod. "She was very kind to me. When I was old enough, I traveled with her throughout the alienage as she offered medical treatment to the sick and infirm. One day, we came upon a labouring woman. It was a very difficult birth and after many hours, out came a still, quiet babe. I could tell by the look on Sister Nelda's face that the news was not good. Before a prayer could be uttered, the mother started to fade and Sister Nelda handed me the child in haste as she worked to revive her. I watched his little face, so quiet and still and I felt a tingling in my hand. From over my shoulder, I could hear the mother wail and beg for her baby, but Sister Nelda tried to distract her. I placed my hand over the baby's face and suddenly felt an energy flow from my hand—and into him. He squirmed. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks, but I heard a little squawk. Quickly, I removed my hand and he let out a lusty cry. My hands were glowing a brilliant blue… they were cold to the touch yet on fire at the same time. Sister Nelda had been watching me… and I will never forget that look on her face."

"That was the first time you discovered you were a mage, no?"

I nod. So swaddled in my own memories that I am just now aware that her fingers are brushing softly against my ear. I turn to nuzzle her hand and shift in closer.

"It was not long after, that the templars arrived. She had no choice."

Her brows knit together. She knows this is a painful topic for me and I continue. "There is no teaching of the Dalish ways at the Circle—or anything regarding the elves for that matter. I learned the Chant of Light along with the four schools of magic. These gods of whom you speak are strangers to me… just as the Maker and Andraste are..." I hope my honesty does not offend her.

By this time, her hand has found my eagerness and she lightly massages the tip. I shudder under her touch. In one smooth movement, I roll on top of her, her bare skin brushing against my chest. There are to be no more words and I plunge into her darkness.

..:=+*+=:..

"I expected more from you, Commander."

I am just heading out of the keep when Velanna catches up with me. I should not have been so thoughtless as to try and leave without bidding her good bye, but I am avoiding her inevitable confrontation. I clutch the strap of my pack on my shoulder and rock on my heels so as to seem impatient. I am sure to make eye contact. Any other gesture would be interpreted as weakness. The wind is raw and the ashen clouds threaten snow.

"Then, I suppose you should adjust your expectations. I have a coach to catch. I'll return in a month's time and we'll speak more then."

Her brow furrowed and lip curled. No wonder the Clan had exiled her. There were times that I felt like doing the same.

"We are Elvhen. Whether Dalish or Alienage-born, it matters not, _Lethallin_. Why must are you cater to this foolish charade? The Chantry is just using you… using you to absolve their centuries of wrong that they have so ruthlessly inflicted upon the Elvhen and the mages. It shames them that it took an alienage mage to stop the Blight. Now they must save face to the rest of Thedas and concoct some reprehensible defense regarding the necessity of the alienages."

"I have my own reasons for attending, Velanna." She does have a point, but I am not about to concede or change my plans.

Juzo's patience wore thin and sat at my feet. He pants and looks in the direction of the gates.

"Creators! Think of the message that it will send to the _shemlens_… They will think that their mythology has taken root amongst the Dalish! If you will not make a stand against the Chantry and not attend— for both our sakes, then refuse in the name of every elven in Thedas, Alim." That was the other thing about Velanna. Once she had learned my birth name, she insisted upon using it. She forgets who I am. She has forgotten that I am Jashen Hess. She forgets that I am not quite Elven nor Human, I am betwixt and between. I was raised by a Chantry sister and then by the Circle. I know little of my culture. Yet, even amongst the mages I was an outsider.

I know that this discussion will end in a stalemate and she will continue to fume even after I leave. There is nothing I can do about that. Remaining in anger is her choice.

"This has nothing to do with the Dalish… or the mages, or that Chantry for that matter, Velanna. Now if you will excuse me." I push past her and walk briskly for the gate with Juzo following at my feet.

From behind, I can still sense her anger as she keeps pace with me. "Then why, Alim?"

"I have my own reasons that you will have to be satisfied with." I should say that I need closure, that I need to find Leliana, that I want to see her one last time, but I do not have the heart to deal with Velanna's vitriolic response. Leliana was connected to the very source of her ire. She manages to follow me to the courtyard where the coach is waiting. A groom opens the door, bows his head reverently as I usher in the dog and take my seat.

"Fine day for travelling, wouldn't you say Vel?" Sigrun dismisses the groom's offer of help and climbs into the coach, throwing her pack onto the bench across from me.

"You're taking _her_?" Velanna asked incredulously.

"You snooze, you lose." Sigrun grins, as she gives Juzo a friendly scratch on the head.

I reach my hand outside the window and give the side of the coach a tap. I hear the reins snap and the sound of hoof falls on cobblestone.

Velanna's expression does not soften in the least. It seems appropriate to leave the discussion unresolved.

And with that, Sigrun and I make for Denerim.

..:=+*+=:..

_The Ruined Temple, 18 Months Prior… _

This is not the first riddle put to me. I am still trying to decide what sort of trickery has beguiled my senses. Surely, the ghost of Thane Shartan does not stand before me. Sten is expressionless and whether we share the same vision, I will never know. The dog of course is wandering about the room and marking his territory, while Leliana's eyes are wide with awe and reverence. The contrast between us is almost frightening, and I wonder if we see the same illusion, the same trick of the mind. She crosses her arms at her chest and bows as if Shartan himself stands before her. Fear creeps into the back of my mind, troubled that this might be the work of demons. We must resist or else be dragged back to the Fade. Demons are only the projection of a weak mind, I remind myself.

Its hollow voice echoes throughout the chamber. "I'd neither a guest nor a trespasser be. In this place I belong, that belongs also to me."

I think for a second. What would I know about belonging? Was he referring to faith? I flash a glance at Leliana. She always felt at home in her love for the Maker. Can this Shartan mirage tell that I don't have an immediate answer?

"Home," She whispers in my ear as her hand interlocks with mine.

Although I want to shrug as I offer the dubious answer, I manage to straighten my shoulders and boldly state the response. In a whiff of smoke the apparition acknowledges the veracity of my statement and dissipates from whence it came. I squeeze her hand as my silent thank-you.

Nearest the door, movement catches my eye. It is another hungry ghost, ready to devour our rationality. I hate this test. It requires so little of logic and rationality and it occurs to me how strange it is that I have managed to make it this far.

I think about what this Shartan had said and curl up my lip. "And what would I know about home?"

Leliana offers a sad glance. Seeing such sorrow in her gaze never fails to stir a heaviness in my chest.

She places her hand over my heart. "Home is here."

I smile and kiss her cheek. "Then I am home at this moment."

"Shartan offers the promise that the Dalish and the world of men can work as equals."

I furrow my brow. "Tell that to the folk in the alienage."

"The alienage is the sin of my mothers and brutality of my fathers. When I worked in the Lothering Chantry, I always read from the Canticle of Shartan. The Revered Mother threatened to excommunicate me." She flashes a naughty grin, which nearly brings me to my knees.

I manage to collect myself. "Isn't that text still considered heresy?" I can't fall apart in the middle of this mission, and I refuse to allow my desires to stand in the way of my task—even if it is just to spite Wynne and her interfering opinions regarding Leliana and me.

Leliana giggles. "Yes indeed. Although I am sure the Chantry has forgotten that Andraste would have wished to honour her greatest supporter." She looks upward and clears her throat. "_At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows. At Our Lady's, ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths, a great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming: Those who had been slaves were now free."_

I chuckle. "Now the Chantry can't go freeing slaves! Who else would there be to wipe the Divine's arse?"

I must have hit a nerve. "Jashen…" she responds flatly.

"What? You think it is the role of the elves to tend to the Divine's brown eye?" I am having fun at this point.

"Jashen!" Her voice has become shrill and her cheek blooms with embarrassment. "We can't just talk about the Divine like that. Of course slavery is wrong! Shouldn't we finish this? I think there is another riddle we must answer."

We. I quite like the sound of that. I only hope things between Leliana and I do not end as badly as they did for Andraste and Shartan. The thought of home still lingers, as I prepare for the next illusion.

_To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Present Day…_

"Commander! So good to see you!" Brother Genitivi holds open the door and invites me in out of the rain. My back aches slightly from the journey south and the heat from his fire is already having a healing effect.

"I'm off to the Gnawed Noble Tavern," Sigrun points with a thumb behind her. Her hair is flat against her head and dripping, but she doesn't appear to care. It only just occurs to me how strange the sensation of rain must feel to her, given her upbringing under the Frostbacks.

"I'll leave you two to catch up. Stay out of trouble." She offers a drenched wink.

"Shouldn't I be saying that to you?" I chuckle, finding the situation slightly absurd.

She dashes into the bustling Denerim market before I can catch her response, so I follow the scholar inside. She and Oghren have a thing for a good stout and part of me hopes that she'll keep the Wardens out of city gossip.

"I am so pleased that you agreed to accompany me." Brother Genitivi offers me a seat at his table. I strip off my sopping wet cape and hung hang it over the back of a chair nearest the fire and then course my fingers through my knotted hair in hopes of pulling out the dampness. Meanwhile, my host busies himself in his pantry and I can hear the clatter of dishes before he returns with a plate of fruit and cheese.

"It always rains in Denerim. Was there snow further north? Oh tut tut… You did not come to speak about the weather. To be honest, I am quite shocked—in a good way of course—that you came. I thought my invitation was a bit of a long shot."

He maneuverers a cast iron kettle and carefully pours the steaming brew into my cup. Sister Nelda taught me the value of a strong cup of tea and judging from its dark mahogany colour, I would not be disappointed.

Holding the terracotta bowl to my lips, I blow the steam from my face and ask, "And who will be attending this spectacle? Is anyone from Orlais expected?"

Genitivi chuckled. "Your interest in Chantry business is indeed curious, Commander."

I stare into the fire and slowly eat an apple quarter, mulling whether my search for Leliana is something I should keep secret. "I am looking for one of my companions. I think you met her in Haven. She helped me locate the Urn and equally deserves this honour. However, we parted company some months ago and I am afraid I have been unable to send word." That is not completely true, however. I had paid Zevran a handsome sum to track her down before I had left for Amaranthine, but either his messages were lost, intercepted or even the great Antivan Assassin was unable to track down the elusive Leliana in Val Royeaux.

"Sister Nightingale?"

I shake my head. "No, her name is Leliana, a lay sister from Lothering."

Genitivi leans forward. "My dear Commander. I think we speak of the same woman."

_Sister Nightingale?_ "What rumours have you heard?" I try to look all business, but fear my excitement may have leaked through my artificial sternness.

"'Tis not a rumour, Ser. It is well known that she is working with the Divine."

"Working with the Divine? How do you mean?"

"Well, her role is not entirely clear, to be honest. The Chantry is all-abuzz about her arrival in Val Royeaux. The ordained and lay alike think it highly unusual that a lay sister— and a Fereldan at that, so easily finds herself in the Divine's counsel. I, of course, suspect that her position is related to the work she had accomplished with you… she was with you on the rooftop at Fort Drakon, was she not?"

I nod. "Along with a Qunari and another Grey Warden."

"Indeed! I've been to the palace a number of times to speak with Her Majesty. I have been trying to record the events of the Fifth Blight… I am so glad that you are here. Since we will be travelling together, there are many details that I wish to discuss with you…there are a few holes in my research."

I had not the appetite to discuss the past. "Of course. But this Sister Nightingale—will she be taking the pilgrimage?"

Brother Genitivi shrugs. "I have not heard word. Her comings and goings tend to be kept rather quiet. As I said, while no one is exactly sure of her role," he leaned forward and started to whisper, making me wonder if we were not alone. "I have to wonder if she is not some sort of spy."

Leliana, a spy for the Chantry? Who would she be spying on? The only group that I am certain that causes a good amount of concern to the Chantry are, of course, the mages. As I consider the possibility, my stomach sours and the plate of food in front of me loses its appeal. An uncomfortable sensation starts to grow within in me. At first, I thought there was something I may have eaten that did not quite agree with me, until I realized that it is a festering doubt. For the first time since I we had parted ways, I am questioning the genuineness between us. Suddenly, everything was in doubt: Her. I. We. I think back to the moment even before the conjured devilry of Thane Shartan.

..:=+*+=:..

_The Ruined Temple, 18 Months Prior…_

The Guardian is speaking with Leliana. He has already questioned me on my role in helping Jowan. I harbour no shame or regret. In fact, it is at this point that I fully appreciate his love for Lily.

"And you, why do you say that the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left. He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself her equal?"

"I never said that. I…" Leliana stammers. The trickery from the Fade surely knows how to vex an individual's deepest, most tender wounds.

"In Orlais, you were someone, in Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister and disappear. When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticised you for what you professed, you were hurt. But you also revelled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative."

Leliana answers incredulously. I can tell that her voice teeters on the edge of a chasm of tears. She swallows them back in a last ditch attempt at composure, but her voice is uneven. "You're saying that I made it up for the attention? I did not. I know what I believe."

We gather our thoughts before we continue on. The guardians' question to me leaves no lingering pain or regret. I am momentarily lost in the memory of our previous night and I yearn that this sacred urn business can be wrapped up in a matter of hours so that we can share our sleep again. My animal urges coil inside me.

"Do you think that?" Leliana asks, clearly still unhinged from the trial.

"Do I think that you are a narcissistic attention seeker?" I cross my arms and give her a crooked smile. "Of course not. Personally, I think this Maker of yours has impeccable taste, choosing to communicate with you and all."

I trace a finger down one of her delicate braids and then place my hand on her shoulder. Her eyes turn sad.

"Now you are making fun of me."

I kiss her on the tip of the nose, trying to think of a clever way to change the subject without appearing insensitive. Even though I have no faith, I have no interest in taking hers away. These conversations are always thorny. Before too much time passes, which would invariably affirm her fear, I tell her what I have always maintained. "I know what you experienced… is real to you. And I have never questioned your sincerity about it, and never, not even for a second, did I think it was some ploy to generate attention from me or from anyone in the company."

She huffed, which is typical of her when she is frustrated. If I were cruel, I would elicit such a response on purpose, just so I could see that adorable pout that only forms when she is in this state of mind. "But, when push comes to shove, you really don't think the Maker actually came to me in a real dream…"

"Leliana…" I say, in that tone that really means _it is best that we not have this conversation_. "Never, have I tried to dissuade you of your beliefs. Your faith belongs to you and I honour that. It is not for me to take away. I only ask for the same courtesy."

She bites her bottom lip and taps her foot. I can tell that Sten is starting to get anxious about continuing on our journey. To be honest, I was of the same mind, as I wish I was anywhere but in the middle of this conversation. In fact, apart from the activities under our bedrolls, this whole journey seems like a complete waste of our time and energy. It's a good thing that I decided to leave Alistair back at camp, because there is no way on this green earth that I would want to hear his incessant whining about saving the Arl. I want troops. This is why I have found myself in this wretched predicament.

"Then is there anything that you do believe?" she asks.

"I believe in us… in you and me." I offer, trying to superimpose optimism over my frustration. She smiles and we walk together. I want to take her hand, but it seems rather inappropriate when in the confines of a long forgotten temple, surrounded by a group of unhinged cultists and watched over by a dragon.

"And is there anything beyond… just us?"

I know this conversation, so I already know how to answer. Eventually she is going to question my position on the creation of the earth and what will happen after I die.

"Of course there is. There is magic… which if you want to know my honest opinion is grossly misunderstood by a certain religious institution in Thedas…"

"And who created magic?"

Huzzah! And there is the long expected question. "No one created magic. It has no beginning or end. It is the raw energy of the universe and it eventually found its way into us. There is no reason for its existence, just as there is no purpose or reason for us being here…" She furrows her brow slightly. "You asked." I say lightly.

"And what after you die?"

"My energy is transformed and I enter the Fade. Eventually I think that my fade-self will evaporate and I will eventually become part of the stuff of the universe. Can we get going? Now is not the best time to stand around and discuss eschatology—we have an urn to find."

Leliana giggles. "Your irony amuses me."

..:=+*+=:..

_Present Day…_

The light fluffy snow blankets the forest and begins to hide the trail that we've been following. To the west, the grey hovers just above the horizon and a crack of brilliant tangerine spills across the distance, bathing us in its waning intensity. Trees bend under the weight of the snow and create the illusion that we're leading the horses through a vaulted birch cathedral. I take a moment to let the splendour soak in, feeling that I'm part of all this. A strange sensation comes over me—I am not outside, beyond or in-between. I feel part of this energy that connects the trees with the mountains and oceans. Maybe it's magic stirring within me, or perhaps it's some ancient Dalish recognition—it's hard to say. Why must we project our fantasies and claim them to be holy? All we have to do is look around and realize that there is nothing esoteric about the nature of reality. It just is. It's all around us, in us and a part of us.

My ruminations now border on the irrational—the world is starting to provoke excessive thoughts, perhaps the result of too little sleep. I remind myself that trees are just trees and the beauty of their configuration about the road is nothing more than my own construction. As my mind returns to the saddle, I watch my mare's ears twitch. Juzo is wandering off-trail, appearing quite consumed with the business of sniffing, and just like that he stops, sniffs the air and folds back his ears. A branch cracks in the distance.

I signal a halt to my small party: Sigrun, Brother Genitivi and Ser Donall.

Genitivi's horse whickers and I point to the area from where I had heard the sound. Sigrun loads her crossbow, allowing it to rest in her lap as she awaits further instruction. The Redcliffe knight secures his position in the rear, nodding in acknowledgment that he is at the ready.

Fixed and silent, I listen to the silence between the wind rustle through cedars and the crunch of snow beneath our feet. What you never lose after a Blight is that feeling that you are being watched—that there is something looming just beyond the bend. It's a nice talent to have, I suppose, when one is in the middle of the forest en route to Haven, except the sensation just doesn't go away. I will feel this anxious when I go to sleep tonight. Feeling slightly unhinged is not the best way to approach strange noises in the forest. I gather my courage, despite my racing heart.

I see nothing but naked, twisting branches and the sunlight streaming from the canopy as I scan the wood. Juzo bares his teeth toward the west and I erase all former doubt that it is a wayward animal. I encourage the mare forward and lead her off the path to investigate.

My peripheral vision catches a fast moving shadow but before I am able to react, I am on the ground, the wind knocked out of me. In the distance I can hear the vague sounds of an ensuing skirmish—the clash of curse and steel. It is too chaotic to determine how many have ambushed us. A blade flashed before my eyes as I return to my senses and realize that I am holding back a set of meaty forearms wielding a knife, aimed directly at my neck. Through my anger comes heat—my hands erupt in a column of flame and I wrestle my attacker the ground. Before I can inflict any more humiliation upon him, one of Sigrun's bolts embeds in his chest.

A screaming horse wrenches my gaze from the dead man and I turn to find Genitivi beating off a fairly thick brute attempting to hijack his mount. My energy swells again, causing my eyes roll to the back of my head. I take a deep breath, feeling a lurch and a prickle sidle up my neck. I collect the gathering force between my palms and shape it into a flickering ball. When the smell of smoke finally hit my senses, I get a visual of my target and then I release, hitting the man square between his shoulder blades. For a moment I pause, waiting for his aggrieved response before I pat my mare's hindquarter, encouraging her to run. We can find each other later.

I glide to Genitivi, who is prepared to sink his blade into the man's chest. The movement around me calms while Ser Donall retrieves his bloodied blade from a man's chest. Across the clearing, Sigrun pulls a bolt from another's skull, using her foot as extra leverage.

"Stay your hand, Brother." I call out.

"Surely he deserves no mercy for attacking a Chantry Scholar and the Hero of Ferelden! They are assassins, no doubt!" Ser Donall responds angrily, coming to Genitivi's assistance.

I grab the brigand by the scruff of his thick neck and throw him upon the ground, planting my boot firmly upon his chest. A shallow wound on his cheek bleeds and he gulps, out of breath. The fingers on my free hand extend, grow bark and vine and wrap around his neck. It is a handy spell that I had learned from Velanna when we had been on better terms. Of course, I could have squeezed the breath completely from him, but all I needed was enough to get him talking.

"Your name and I would be quick about it." I say. The skin on the top of my hand has turned to wood and the weight of my new appendage is apparent.

He had the look in his eye of a child about to receive punishment. I've never seen such a pathetic display of self-pity and remark what an incredible countermove that expression is; too bad he was unaware of just how arresting it was. He could have used it defensively had he been more aware.

In a strained voice, he waivers and stammers, "We… I… hail from Jader, messere. Please, mercy I beg of you."

"And who hired you?"

"No one, messere!" A tear streams from the corner of his eye, and from that I give him the benefit of the doubt. Assassins are good, but not _that_ good. "An Orlesian ship arrived a fortnight past and the stevedores spoke of the passengers arriving for a pilgrimage. A great many chests were unloaded and bound for the Temple of Andraste. My mates and I have not had work since the Blight… we thought we could make extra coin by ambushing a group of rich Orlesians…"

"And are you so stupid to believe that we are a group of Orlesian pilgrims?" Ser Donall's blade was still pointed at the thief. I release my grip and in that instant, my hands return to their usual form. I touch blade's edge and push it away.

"We are miners by trade, messere! We know little of the business of thievery! Please do not kill me! I have a wife and three mouths to feed!" He is on his knees, begging.

"Then your name." I demand.

"Lucian… of Jader. I used to supervise the silverite mines before they were abandoned during the Blight. Folk are too afraid that the Darkspawn still lurk within them."

I whistle for my mare and hold my hand out to Lucian. Ser Donall shoots me a serious look, but I know exactly what I'm doing. I have more questions for our bumbling thief.

"It sounds like a pilgrimage is just the thing you need to atone for your sins." I say to my company. Sigrun shakes her head in derision as she returns her crossbow to her back; Donall offers a similar response.

"An excellent idea, Commander. Andraste is a prophetess of mercy, not vengeance." Brother Genitivi says, looking no worse for wear.

"Tie him to your horse." I instruct to Ser Donall as I step into the stirrup and then guide her back to the head of the line. "And be quick about it. We are losing daylight."

In a shrill voice, Lucian praises me in the Maker's name, despite being tied at the wrists and running to keep up with Ser Donall's horse. Had he known any better, he would have bit his tongue.

..:=+*+=:..

_Eighteen Months Prior, The Forgotten Temple near Haven…_

The urn sits atop a dais, unassuming and plain. It had taken us five days to arrive at this point, five days and four nights of unrelenting battle and effort. Leliana is at my side. I would not have it any other way, of course. She is stoic; her face drawn tight. In all honesty, I am waiting for the moment of realization that we have all been duped and fully expect to find a dead end. It will be of great relief to me when the remaining company finally comes to grips that all attempts to save Arl Eamon have failed. I've already saved his son and his snivelling wife. Perhaps when the Arl passes, she will reward me with the military support that I need—that is, if Loghain does not get to her first. My mind has already decided the future and I have yet to investigate the urn.

After allowing these possibilities to fester, part of me has the audacity to hope that we'll discover the ashes of Andraste. Of course we will find nothing, but it would be nice to circumvent the political mess that will result. We could discover the remains of Andraste, the folk-hero martyred in Tevinter. Her remains won't have much power over the Arl, however. You would think that it would be a source of frustration to not voice this conclusion; I think that it is best that my beloved discover certain self-evident truths on her own.

Leliana weaves her fingers together and holds them to her chest. She is praying into her knuckles, her lips move, but no words can be heard.

I'm undecided whether I should give Leliana this moment. Either it will be the one of the most defining moments in her life or one of the most disappointing. A part of me wants to make the assessment myself, just so I could shield her from the inevitable pain for a few more seconds. However, I stand aside.

"I think you should have the honour, Leliana."

Her eyes are wide, with equal hints of amazement and fear. She is about to say something but I hold out my hand in invitation toward the urn. "You've waited your whole life to find this. I should not be the first one to gaze upon her remains." I can't believe that I am encouraging her.

She blinks quickly and holds out a shaking hand toward the top of the alabaster lid. Before she can grasp the rounded top, she closes her hand into a fist and turns toward me. Leaping into my arms, she plants a rough kiss on my lips and wraps her arms around me in a desperate embrace, sobbing into my shoulder. Instinctually, I stroke the back of her hair and give her a moment to compose herself.

"When you are ready." I say, breaking the silence. Part of me just wants the other shoe to drop. Let's skip all the reverence and get on with the business of moving on.

I look into her eyes and with a thumb, gently wipe the tears from her eyes. This alone chases away my impatience. She turns with renewed determination and crosses herself, bows to the urn and recites the Canticle of Andraste.

"_Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice_."

With a trembling hand, she lifts the lid and looks inside. She covers her gaping mouth; whether she is trying to stifle a cry or a scream, I cannot tell.

"Blessed Andraste," she whispers.

I understand that to mean that she has found what she has been seeking. After giving her a moment alone with the relic, I look over her shoulder and peer at the contents. It is just as I suspected—a weather-worn container of fine grey ashes. There is nothing particularly sanctified in its presentation. It is the powdery remnants of someone… or something. How Leliana knows with such certainty that these are the remains of Andraste, I do not know. It could be anything in there. Kolgrim could have easily placed the charred remains of an unfortunate adventurer there. Or, this could be a cruel trick, nothing more than ashes from a hearth, placed here to undermine and bring humiliation upon the pilgrims. Ever since I discovered magic within myself, I could sense it in other beings—the contents of the urn were silent and cold.

"I just knew it would be here," she said finally. I want to ask her how she was so certain, but I do not want to introduce doubt into her moment. I reach inside a pocket and produce a small pouch.

"Let us collect a sample and return to Redcliffe."

Her response was unexpected. "Oh no, I could not possibly. You must. I fear my trembling might be the direct cause of some unfortunate accident."

I take a generous pinch and stick my fingers in the pouch. Part of me hopes that the moment my fingers sink into the dust that a great revelation will overcome me, assuring me that there is some latent arcane energy contained within; but I feel nothing, aside from the general anxiety of using the benign contents to heal Eamon. This solves nothing, I think and I still have to contend with the possibility of the Arl dying. How a pinch of ashes will cure a man that a mage cannot, is not a situation I feel particularly anxious to face.

Siding next to me, resting her head on my shoulder, she sighs deeply. "I came to Ferelden and the Chantry because I was being hunted. I walked where the Maker led me and he has rewarded me for my faith. I found you."

How strange this Maker is. How strange indeed.

* * *

_Bioware owns all. Much appreciation to DoorbellSpider and Kira Tamarion for their Beta magic. Stay tuned for last segment of this one-shot that took a life of its own. :D_


	3. Chapter 3

Haven's transformation is nothing short of remarkable. After stabling our horses with an innkeeper, we mill about the bustling town and I'm trying to recognize the once-sleepy village I had held in my memory. A large market has been established in the heart of the village and crowds of pilgrims wander from stall to stall, sussing the goods the merchants have on offer. One trader has the most exquisite fabrics from the West, woven in rich gem-tones. Draping prominently at the front of his stand is a shimmering blue brocade fabric with a pattern of Andraste's Grace embroidered in silver. Had I known her whereabouts, I would have suggested a dress… and then I feel ridiculous for pandering to this trivial side to myself. It's not hard to imagine how stunning she would look and the thought knots my heart. So much time has passed that I have to close my eyes to imagine the redness of her hair, the blueness of her eyes or even the sound of her laugh.

A juggler catches his flaming batons and a number of jesters are in a duel to create the most obscene and hilarious rhymes they can.

I'm wearing my robes as well as a chest piece with the Warden insignia emblazoned on the front. Folks gasp in surprise and grant me passage. Needless to say, I do not travel inconspicuously.

"Commander, the pilgrimage begins at the Chantry." Brother Genitivi says after we have explored the perimeter of the village square. I keep a close eye on Lucian, who for all intents and purposes, is acting as if a great miracle has been bestowed upon him. Since his defeat in the forest, he has become quite agreeable and has succumbed to frequent bootlicking and otherwise causes me little concern. Even Sigrun, who tends to be the least trusting of my company, after Juzo of course, seemed have warmed up to him slightly. During the last leg of our journey, she had refrained from calling him _deepstalker dung_ and even snorted at one of his attempts at humour.

"If you don't mind, I think I would like to investigate a tavern first. I'll meet you at the Chantry, shortly. Take Juzo. He'll keep you out of harm's way."

"As you wish, Commander." Brother Genitivi bows his head slightly and ducks into the crowd. I'm quite sure that I will require a few ales before I enter the refurbished chapel that once housed a group of cultists fond of human sacrifice. I wonder if any of the lost villagers of Haven would be remembered during this circus?

I scan the crowd, trying to ascertain the direction of the nearest tavern. Lucian elbows me slightly and points. He is a good head taller than I.

"Over there, Messere. The Reaver and the Raven."

"How quaint," I mutter and head through the throngs of pilgrims, with my companions close behind.

The tavern is packed almost wall to wall. Available seating is in short-supply, especially for a party of our size. Never having been in a pilgrimage and rather confused about everyone's festive behaviour, I turn to Ser Donall and shout over the din, figuring he'd be able to shed some light on the matter.

"So, I thought pilgrimages were supposed to be rather stuffy, stoic affairs."

"There has not been a pilgrimage in Ferelden in living memory. I suspect people are making it up as they go along. The intensity of the revelry, will most likely tone down once they start making their way up the mountain."

"Make way! Make way!" A booming voice breaks the chattering hum of the tavern. Suddenly, the noise is sucked from the room with the exception of the odd, unbroken conversation. All eyes turn to me.

"All hail the Hero of Ferelden!"

My face burns in self-consciousness. I've never been able to get used to the attention. A hundred steins are raised aloft and offer a cheer or hail. I bow graciously to the crowd and suddenly regret not joining Brother Genitivi. A group clears their table, making excuses that they should best be on their way and offers it to our company. Before I can graciously refuse, I am seated with a cold stein of ale and an order for the stew.

Before I realize what I am doing, I have taken stock of every lady in the room. Unfortunately, the only redhead is a rather tall man slapping his knee with a set of spoons and belting out a cheerful Fereldan folk song.

I weave my fingers together and lean forward on the rough wooden table. "Lucian, now that your circumstances have changed, I'd like to ask you a few questions about that Orlesian ship you had mentioned."

He drinks deeply and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sopping up any ale that had dribbled into his dark beard. "I would guess that a good many of them were rich pilgrims."

"And how about clergy?"

Lucian furrows his brow looking like he's trying to remember. "There were some. From what I could gather, there was no one of status. Most of them were elderly and in need of assistance. I would guess no one higher than the rank of Mother. I wouldn't say the Grand Cleric or certainly the Divine were in attendance. Not enough templars by my reckoning. But there was another order present—one that we do not see too often. They have a great eye emblazoned on their leather." He traces his chest where he had seen this symbol.

"Can you hazard a guess how many of this Order were present?"

"Only but two or three. All men. What do you know of this order, Commander?"

"Nothing." Now that my curiosity was sated, my thirst returned.

"Of course there was that redheaded beauty that disembarked after the ship had been emptied…" Lucian remarked after a long silence.

..:=+*+=:..

_Mountain Top, Near the Ruined Temple, 18 Months Prior… _

I heave, out of breath, and brace against a rock shielding myself from the High Dragon's onslaught. Sten swings his broadsword, while Leliana perches on high ground, letting arrow after arrow fly and embed in the beast's rough hide. And of course, there is Juzo, mad with rage, mouth frothing and bearing down, rending its scaly flesh in bloody chunks.

Sten confronts the beast full on, his expression relatively empty, just the icy stare of a seasoned warrior. As he occupies the dragon's attention, Leliana sees her advantage, sheathes her bow and tumbles forward, grasping a set of daggers as she tucks under her shoulder. Patting through my layers of robes, ready to rejoin the fray, I am unable to find a spare lyrium vial. I curse. I don't remember the last time I was able to restock my supply and realize that what I need is something I do not have in abundance: time. My staff will have to suffice. This bodes ill. I've come to trust my magic over weapons.

Instead of rushing into battle, I watch her. She is fierce, so feral and elegant. Her body moves with the grace of a song, muscles straining as her arms plunge her blades into the thick muscle of the beast's hindquarters. For a moment, she is ephemeral, like smoke, floating silently before she lunges for her final assault. Then, she bears down—quick and deadly.

While I bide my time, waiting for my energy to return, I point my staff at the beast, aiming at its vulnerable underbelly, under the neck. However, my weapon is neither potent nor particularly fast. Dashing to a bit of high ground, I allow my mind to wander to a dark recess where I can read my companion's physical condition. Time is still on my side and they are managing rather well without me. I always double check on Leliana.

The Circle teaches us that access to our magic is limited. Our power can be wasted, as well as quickly spent. The Senior Enchanters never provided a satisfying answer as to where magic comes from and how I am able to recharge in the middle of battle without the aid of lyrium, but I often wonder. Ever since I was a youngling, I imagined that my body was like a sponge and I sucked up the magic that surrounded me. Magic is the stuff of reality, residing in the rocks and in the wind.

As I spin and aim my staff, my body instinctually takes control, leaving my mind relatively free for the time being. My eyes stay on her, never leaving, never wandering for even a second. One hint that she is in need of aid and I am ready. I hold a healing spell just at the tip of my tongue, prepared in the event of one misstep. She manages quite fine without me and I sense that she is also watching me.

It occurs to me that there could not be two individuals more poorly suited for one other. Unlike warriors and rogues, mages do not experience a mind-body unity whilst in the thick of battle. The intensity of a fight always determines by how separated the mind and body become. At times such as these, my thoughts are farthings away from my corporeal self. The more distance I can gain, the easier I can conjure spells. It makes sense to me, but then again, I've lived with the condition my whole life. But I digress. So, while my body effortlessly attacks the high dragon, my mind is otherwise occupied. I am thinking of Leliana. Sounds dangerous but trust me. This is just a part of magic.

For months I have avoided analysing our situation. Of course, it took me a few weeks to warm up to her in the first place. I often wonder why she did not pack up and leave in the middle of the night, as I allowed myself to wallow in my bitterness over my conscription. I was quite unbearable after we first met, if I can be honest. Alistair was at his wits end, between my brooding and Morrigan's venomous retorts. I was never fond of the swamp-witch either, which is rather odd, considering the circumstances. You'd think that we were made for each other. There was something about her that I did not trust, that her reasons for coming were not as altruistic as her mother had alluded. Magic and secrets are a dark combination, one that I was not particularly interested in investigating. Part of me was quite certain that her intentions were darker, much darker than the Blight.

But enough of Morrigan. What was it that first attracted me to Leliana? I can't imagine feeling any other way anymore. Was it her smile? Perhaps it was the way the sunlight caught the gold in her hair. Maybe it was the way she listened, as if I was the only person in Thedas that had anything of importance to say. She had a way of brightening my day, even after slogging through swampland or beating off Darkspawn. I never once doubted her love for the Maker, while at the same time she so patiently put up with my barbed pragmatism.

Eventually, I convinced myself that we existed in two separate realities. In hers, the Maker ordered and ruled all things, while in mine, the universe was a grand coincidence and series of accidents, the result of chaos meeting entropy. Somehow we managed to meet in the delicate centre. Before I realized what was happening, I could not help but join her by the fire at camp. Those habits will become hard to break.

My arms tingle, a tell-tale sign that I am ready to resume casting. The screams of the High Dragon have become more desperate. Its head begins to keel, like a ship flailing on a reef. I take a calculated risk and conjure a swirling blizzard, driving snow and icy winds. A thin dusting of frost crawls up my fingers as I aim at the wounded neck. So intense is this spell that I can see my breath and snow begins to fall at my feet. Once I land my mark, I am able to restrict its movement, thus giving Sten an added advantage. He slices a deep gash across its neck, followed quickly by Leliana, who in an acrobatic swoop, leaps upon the back of its head, locking her position with both knees and plunges both blades into its skull.

Once the dust settles, I hold out my hand and help her up.

"Fantastic bit of work there," I smile.

She twirls her blades, replaces them in their sheathes and then winks flirtatiously. "Oh, look! My bruises form a pretty pattern!"

That was my Leliana, always the optimist.

I suppose her disposition is beginning to rub off—there is an angry bruise forming on her upper thigh. At that moment, I decide that an ointment will be my first course of treatment.

..:=+*+=:..

At dawn, I start making my way up to the Ruined Temple. Brother Genitivi has taken to calling it the Temple of Andraste, but it would always be the Ruined Temple to me. I'm still not used to crowds. I much prefer slinking in shadow, with nothing but a staff and my Warden senses to get me through the dark. I feel so exposed today, even though my cadre surrounds me as we enter the apse of the temple.

Despite my armour and robes I am naked. Alone.

The whispering pilgrims eventually part in calls of surprise.

"It's the Hero of Ferelden!"

By this point, everyone has heard the rumours. Children point at me, wide eyed and excited. Women elbow each other and whisper in their companion's ears. The braver souls tug on my cape and bow in reverence.

"You slayed the Archdemon… The Maker watches upon us all…"

"He found the Urn; Maker's blessings upon you, Ser!"

Before I can deflect the attention back to the general procession, the gathered are forming an aisle and throwing Andraste's Grace at my feet.

"Brother, please, tell them this is not about my work here..."

Brother Genitivi shrugs. "There is not much we can do about it now, Commander."

The walls that once crumbled and collapsed in on themselves were now filled in. As I steadfastly march, trying desperately to ignore the praise, I watch the stonemasons, mostly from Orzammar, complete their inspections.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of auburn hair. My stomach lurches and I scan the thousands of faces to see a pilgrim that vaguely resembles her… only with a much larger nose.

"Sorry to interrupt, Commander…" Sigrun is now walking in step with me and waves politely to the crowd, even though no one has a clue as to who she is. It's obvious that she is enjoying the attention.

"If you don't do something to distract me from all this nonsense, I'll recite the Chant of Light for you… backwards." I say, trying not to scowl, but I don't think that I succeed.

"Well, you don't need to go that far. Can't stand the attention eh?" She elbows me and forces a smile out of me. Then she pushes to me to the edge so I can accept a wilted flower from a young girl. I imagine my face is as pink as that rose.

Once I resume my uncomfortable and conspicuous procession, Sigrun continues. "You never did explain to me why she left."

Now I am not sure what is worse, the unwanted attention or Sigrun's line of questioning. I look at her incredulously. "It's not a story I am particularly fond of sharing."

"You're not particularly fond of sharing anything, Commander."

Of course, Sigrun is never one to be rebuffed when it comes to awkward situations or uncomfortable stories. There is no chance for me to weasel my way out of this one. Ser Donall and Brother Genitivi seem content to lead our charge through the mass of people and I follow, wishing I had the nerve to conjure an invisibility spell. With so many templars on the premises, I decide to keep the peace. The temptation is there, however.

Before I launch into the tale, I catch a whiff of something in the air. It reminds me of her… the smell of her hair… of her satiny skin after a bath. And then I see the cause of this recollection. We arrive at the base of the grand staircase and flanking either bannister are two billowing bouquets of Andraste's Grace spilling out from their massive vases and cascading to the floor. I scan the crowd, hoping she is out there, watching me silently.

As we ascend, I nod to a woman praising me excessively and begin to speak with Sigrun, leaning close to her. Anything to take the attention from this spectacle.

"Well, let me begin then. There is something that I have been wondering about… one part of this story that has never made any sense to me." Sigrun says. Up until this point, I had not realized how good of a listener she was.

"And what is that?"

"This whole urn business. I know you Commander. What exactly did you two find here?"

I want to say something else, something more romantic, but I cannot. "We found an Urn of Ashes." I lower my voice to barely a whisper. "What sort of ashes, is still a mystery." I wink. Sigrun catches my meaning.

"Well that is just it, Commander. You take the ashes back to Denerim and heal the Arl of Redcliffe. That has to mean something?"

I grimace. "I was not allowed anywhere near the Arl prior to our journey here. Isolde insisted on that. But upon my return, I was invited to joined the mages in their healing ritual. I drew something deep from within me… a well-spring of power I had never tapped before. Together we revived the Arl."

"What power? Did it come from the Ashes?"

"I'm quite certain that it didn't. I'm almost certain that I channeled some latent Dalish energy. I knew with certainty that it came from me… and not from some external source. I never had the chance to ask the other mages what they had experienced."

"And did you tell Leliana this?"

"Of course not."

"Oh." Sigrun answers, not expecting my response. "I thought that might have been the reason why she left after the Blight."

"After the Archdemon was slain, she stayed with me at the Arl of Denerim's estate."

Did I need to explain Morrigan's proposal to Sigrun? I did not even speak of it to Alistair. I often wonder if he would have gone through with it, had he known. The possibility of sharing a bed with Morrigan on the eve of battle, instead of Leliana was unthinkable. Morrigan had disappeared before I realized the implications of my refusal. I dared not tell another living being. Sometimes, I see this as an act of murder. It's not the pilgrim's attention that I have been avoiding; it is my deepest shame.

Sigrun grinned mischievously. "Oh to be a fly on the wall! Shared or separate quarters?" I snap back to the playful tale that she is expecting.

At this point, I am beyond feeling embarrassed and just glad to be distracted. "Separate… in name only I suppose. I was granted my own wing. No one really questioned our companionship, but I think Leliana felt that the Chantry might be paying attention. Out of the blue, a messenger arrived from Orlais… and before I knew it… she was gone."

Her eyes widened in shock. "And that was that? She left without saying good-bye? Just like that? What a…."

Before Sigrun could volley in insult, I hold up a hand and successfully interrupt her.

"She had been strongly hinting that she was preparing to leave… but I wouldn't listen. She spoke on more than one occasion about something she needed to do, but became quite secretive about it. I even offered to go with her, but I could tell that whatever she had to do, involved the Chantry. The unsaid was overwhelmingly clear. I was an elf, a mage and a Grey Warden. All should stay out of Chantry business."

And then I hear her, echoing through the upper chambers. Hollow and haunting, the song stops me in my tracks. A chantry sister stands at the top of the stairs, filling the room with her sweet hymn. She is lovely of course, but not who I was looking for.

Eventually, I grow silent and must have given the impression that I am not in the mood for stories. The crowd continues to thicken the deeper we trek into the temple and into the belly of the mountain. The short time it had taken us to arrive at the top of the mountain takes me by surprise. Didn't it take us days the first time?

And finally we arrive. The inner sanctum. The urn is where we had left it. Except now, the chamber is full of flowers and candles and throngs of excited Andrastians, all craning their necks to get a glimpse of her remains. I want the singing to stop. I can't take it anymore. It's her song. It's the one she used to sing to me in the middle of the night, when it was just her and I, when there was nothing else between us but a fine layer of sweat from the energy we had just expended.

Sandalwood and amber curl from burners and fill the room, stinging the back of my throat. It clutches my neck, squeezing, stealing my air. When I clear my throat, thousands of eyes shift in my direction. A Chantry official strikes a large gong and silences the milling pilgrims. I want to run.

..:=+*+=:..

_Denerim, Fifteen Months Prior…_

Moonlight streams into my room at the Arl of Denerim's estate. I will not sleep tonight. It seems I have not slept in years. The Archdemon is gone. Dead. And so is Alistair. I was prepared to give myself, but Alistair threw me aside as it heaved its last rattled breath. Funny thing is, I feel nothing. Shouldn't I feel guilt? Gratitude? As I watch the thousand pinpricks of lantern light flicker through the city, I wonder if those who tend their lamps have given thanks to the Warden who gave his life so they could live out their meaningless existence. It feels no better being the one who survived. There is no relief.

Ever since the coronation, the Queen has kept her distance. I would have beheaded her and her craven father if given the chance, had Alistair not convinced me otherwise. I did get my chance with Loghain during the Landsmeet. This was my one single act of revenge against a lifetime of oppression. This was the one small thing I could do for my people. Now there is one less slaver in Thedas. I only hope that his conniving daughter does not have the same sympathies with regards to the slave trade. I felt no better after his death either.

A hand rests on my shoulder. I can tell that our time is drawing short. She has been pulling away from me. Perhaps I am guilty of the same. It is hard to ascertain with so much numbness. Even as her translucent skin reflects the lick of flame, I struggle to make some sort of connection with her tonight. There was something lacking—we both feel it, but neither have the courage or the want to admit it.

"My love," she starts. Her voice is husky and half-whispered. I watch the smoke drift in the moonlight over the wounded city. I can't bear to hear what she is about to tell me. Why can't she just leave in silence? Since nothing I say has any sway over her decision, I remain quiet. An ache settles inside that I cannot bear against.

I place a finger to her lips with a hush. She frowns. I lead her to the fireplace and the mussed bedding strewn in front.

She resists my gentle nudges. Of course I don't think another seduction will change her mind. I know nothing will, but I need something to do, to ease my longing, to quell my ache. "No… not until I say what needs to be spoken," she murmurs, trying to make eye contact.

I resist even that. My vulnerability is insufferable and feels like a salted wound.

Since I have nothing to say, I begin to dress. It gives me something to do at least. The numbness is beginning to crack and anger wants to seep through the fissures.

"Nothing more needs to be said." I say at last.

I won't even allow her the courtesy for her swan song. I am cruel, but I have nowhere left to escape. There is only inside.

Her eyes mist over. For the first time, I resent her demands, her insistence at honesty. "I thought you might understand. There are some chances that must be taken."

"I understand nothing, Leliana. Once upon a time, you and I made complete sense together. In fact, it was the only sanity that kept me going through this madness. To think that you are choosing _them_ over _me—_ is too much to bear, my love."

"I am not choosing the Chantry over you, Jashen! Please, do not make this more difficult than it already is…"

"The sad thing, Leliana," I say in the doorway, as I am about to leave. I have lost all sense of rationality. "Is that you made that choice a long time ago and refuse to admit to it… to me… or to yourself."

I shut the door behind me, a little too forcefully than I had originally intended. Her sobs would not be stifled by the thick walls.

..:=+*+=:..

The smell of Andraste's Grace was thick in the air, almost nauseating. I am at the front with Brother Genitivi, Ser Donall and Sigrun. The Grand Cleric of Denerim is speaking to the crowd. A choir sings a haunting song that I have never heard before. I think I can recognize snippets from the Chant of Light. How unfortunate that some things are so impossible to forget. I wish I could wipe my memory completely of anything regarding the Chantry. Hatred settles in my heart. I hate them all.

People began to push in, I cannot breathe, my heart is pounding and I break into a cold sweat. The Grand Cleric's words buzz nonsensically and colours swim in front of my face. A flash of auburn hair. Her voice, her smell.

I pull at my neck, my mouth is pasty and dry; my knees are weak. Before sensibility sets in to chastise me for making an utter fool of myself in front of the Chantry and a thousand pilgrims, I break from the crowd and dash for the open door to the side of the chamber. It is the same door that Leliana and I used eighteen months ago, the same door we used when we confronted Kolgrim and the High Dragon.

The cold air snaps me awake. The occasional snowflake drifts past and I look to the overcast sky. Have I interrupted the proceedings? I cannot tell and frankly I do not care. I should have followed my better sense and not come. This is no place for me. I bend over and rest my hands upon my thighs, taking deep breaths, trying to compose myself.

"Commander? Are you alright?" It is Sigrun.

"Not in the slightest." I flick my cape over my shoulder and make my way across the plain, nearest the spot where the dragon had been felled.

She chases after me but I maintain my brisk pace. At long last, my resolve returns.

"Where are you going?"

I turn to her. "I have not the slightest idea, Sigrun. But send my regards to the Wardens."

She furrows her brow. "What do you mean?"

"I have unfinished business, Sigrun. You know that."

Sigrun stammers for a second. "What—what shall I tell everyone? Seneschal Varel? The First Warden?!"

I walk toward her and place a hand on her shoulder, looking her squarely in the eye. "Tell them that it is personal. They will understand."

I turn and walk away. At that moment, I'm not sure where I'm headed, but for the first time in months it feels like it's in the right direction.

The End.

_Bioware owns all. Many thanks to my betas DoorbellSpider and especially to Kira Tamarion for helping me wrangle my tenses. All errors in this are my own. A shout out to Agent 94 who gave me the inspiration for Jashen and Leliana. I know this wasn't quite what you expected, but I had a wonderful time getting into his head. I keep asking myself what would have to happen in order to get Jashen to believe in the Maker. Quick! Catch that plot bunny! Thanks for all the kind reviews. Writing in present tense-first person has warped my poor brain!_


End file.
